


Game On

by loves_books



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when you love this job dearly and detest it violently, often both in the same moment. If you can still call this a job, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

There are times when you love this job dearly and detest it violently, often both in the same moment. If you can still call this a job, anyway.

Hannibal says you can. Hannibal says you are all soldiers of fortune, not mercenaries, so it’s a job. Hannibal has his own special way of thinking, but you do love how his mind works.

Times like this, it does feel like a real job. It feels like the job you used to do, the job you loved – lying out alone somewhere in the middle of nowhere, sniper rifle poised, ready and waiting for the signal. You were the best, you know that. You still are the best. No point in being modest. Modesty is for fools.

You’ve been here for hours already; three hours and fourteen minutes, to be precise. That’s nothing in comparison to the stretches of time you’ve done in the past, of course – you once did fifteen hours straight in minimal shade, back when you were still a Ranger. You’re a bit out of practise now, not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

Your legs are cramping, just a bit. That’s annoying, but nothing you can’t cope with. Without ever taking your eye away from the scope of your rifle, you tense and release your thigh muscles one at a time, shifting minutely against the cold hard ground.

It works, of course, just as you knew it would. It also has the bonus side-effect of reawakening another ache, though this one makes you smile rather than wince. This ache certainly won’t be helped by flexing and releasing any muscles.

You and Hannibal don’t always fuck the night before a job. In fact, you rarely do much more than try to get a good night’s sleep, preferably wrapped up in each other’s arms. In practise, however, Hannibal is often up late doing last minute planning, while you are frequently out scamming whatever new piece of equipment your Colonel and lover has suddenly deemed necessary.

Still, the early nights in Hannibal’s arms are your favourites. Apart from the other nights, of course. Like last night.

Last night was something else entirely, something wonderful that you’ll be feeling for quite a while to come.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that you’d all be separated for this job, each with your own roles to play. Perhaps it was the added understanding that you’d be out of radio contact for the duration – something complicated about EM fields, BA told you, and you’d listened and nodded but not really understood.

Perhaps it was just a need, something unnameable and inexplicable. A feeling, or a hunch. Not necessarily a feeling that something might go wrong with the job, but that it would be a long and challenging day for you all. 

Perhaps Hannibal just wanted to make sure you remember who you belong to. As if you could ever forget.

As if you’d ever want to belong to anyone else. 

Whatever the reason behind last night’s activities, you savour that perfect, burning ache deep inside your body. You let it give you focus, as well as letting the memory of Hannibal pinning you to the mattress and pounding into you over and over, growling into your ear and biting at your neck, your shoulders, hitting that perfect spot deep inside…

You blink. What were you thinking about, again?

Ah, yes; you let the memories keep you warm as you lie there unmoving, ready. Waiting for the signal.

This is usually the part you love. The anticipation, the adrenaline building but not rushing, not yet. The occasional chatter over the radio – Murdock singing, or BA grumbling. Hannibal just being Hannibal.

No radios today, though. You’re waiting for a visual signal, one you shouldn’t be able to miss even if your focus slips for a second. Which it won’t. It never does.

The clock ticks over to four hours lying still, just waiting. Any minute now, if Hannibal’s plan is going well. You can’t help but smile at that thought – God, you love the man with all your heart, but since when do his plans ever go well?

They’ll all be in position, hopefully. Hannibal in character, with his hair dyed that horrible shade of red-brown – you’re very much looking forward to washing that out later. Murdock will be on the ground, unhappily, though with luck he’ll be able to get into that private chopper later on. BA is already undercover, already in position, and also just waiting for his signal. 

Any minute. This is the part you hate, especially without even the company of your radio. Come on, Hannibal, you think. Blow the damn warehouse already.

You shift again fractionally, keeping your rifle perfectly steady with long years of experience. You can’t afford to let your legs go to sleep as you know you might have to run later. And then, after this is all over – it should be a short and explosive job, once it finally gets going – you have plans for Hannibal.

After dragging the man straight into the shower and scrubbing that awful hair dye out, you intend to carefully wash every inch of that powerful body. Then you will drop to your knees and worship that mammoth cock for as long as you’re allowed.

You know Hannibal will have his own plans as well, just as he always does, most likely involving showing you yet again exactly who you belong to. A post-mission Hannibal is a horny and possessive Hannibal.

And you adore post-mission Hannibal.

That ache in your ass is going to be ten times stronger tomorrow, and you can’t wait. You’ve scammed the team a spectacular safe-house, and you know you can spend the next week in bed, not moving a single muscle.

If this damn job ever gets started, at least. You try not to entertain the niggling doubts that always start up right about now. Something might’ve gone wrong, somewhere along the way. Someone might’ve been caught. Or hurt. Or worse.

No.

You don’t let yourself think like that. Stay positive, stay focussed. Deep breaths – slow in through the nose, slow out through the mouth. Feel that ache, let it ground you. A little delay is perfectly normal, especially with one of Hannibal’s plans.

Three steps ahead. What a joke.

But it always, always works out in the end.

And then, as if on cue, you watch through your scope as the warehouse goes up in a truly impressive ball of flames. You don’t blink, let alone flinch, though you allow yourself a cocky smile that no one will see, and you stretch out your trigger finger quickly.

Game on.


End file.
